The Hampton Bay Easter Egg Hunt Disaster
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Kurt wants his daughter's first Easter to be a quiet, family only affair. But Rachel has other ideas ... ones more commensurate with their status as members of the New York elite ... Klaine. Kurt H. Blaine A.


_**So, like many of the Daddy Klaine one-shots I write, in this one, Mercedes was their surrogate. Plus, Rachel has a baby, but I couldn't decide who I wanted the father to be, so I just left him out. He exists somewhere. You pick who you like best. xD**_

"So? What do you think?" Rachel sings, glancing over her shoulder as she leads her best friend towards the swankiest gathering of New York's elite that he's ever seen in his life … which is saying something considering he works at _Vogue_ , his husband headlines on Broadway, his best friend has a Tony, and his baby's mama is signed with the same label as Beyonce. But as far as being a member of said "New York's elite" is concerned, it'll always feel new to him.

And overwhelming.

Which is one of the reasons why he wishes she would have chosen something a bit more low key. But Rachel wouldn't be Rachel if she didn't turn every last thing they did into an _event_.

"What do I think?" Kurt asks as they step onto the grass and walk over to a roped off area. From what he can see, it's roughly about the size of two football fields end to end, which Kurt finds astounding since half of the children here look barely old enough to walk yet. "It's _grass_ , Rach. Which we could have found at any old park in our neighborhood."

"Yes, but in your neighborhood, you might not get the chance to rub elbows with Sarah Jessica Parker!" Rachel points to a crowd in the distance where Mrs. Parker herself stands amid a cluster of other notable women, talking and laughing over heaven knows what.

"Yes, we would," Blaine interjects, switching Tracy from one hip to the other. "She shops at the organic food market a block away from our penthouse."

"Not today, she doesn't," Rachel says forcefully. "Today, she's here. Anybody who's anybody is here. And so are we."

"What are the rules?" Kurt asks, searching for a sign, a poster, a handout, or something. "Is there a time limit? Are the kids separated by athletic ability? Or age?" He certainly hopes they're separated by age. He's not a huge fan of celebrating religious-based holidays, but seeing as this was the one day he could get his whole New York family together, he leapt on it. He was hoping to constrict their revelry to family members only, so if they can find their own section of the park to conduct their business without having to socialize, even with the _elite_ , that would suit him fine.

"You're making this too complicated," Rachel scolds, setting her son down in the grass. Blaine follows, sitting Tracy across from him so the two toddlers can play.

"Yeah," Mercedes agrees. "It's just an Easter egg hunt, Kurt. My church used to hold one every year."

"Yeah, well, I don't do churches. And tromping through the grass in search of hard boiled eggs isn't the way my father and I spent Easter."

"How _did_ you spend Easter?" Mercedes asks, realizing that after knowing Kurt for over a decade and carrying his child, she has no clue.

"The way many a well-rounded, musical theater inclined child did. I watched _Brigadoon_ on AMC."

"Same," Rachel says, raising her hand. "But when I got pregnant, I decided that I was going to eschew the boundaries of religion and participate in all traditional, family-friendly events. In fact, I firmly believe that we, especially, have a responsibility to do so."

"How's that?" Blaine pets Tracy's hair as he watches his daughter grab handfuls of grass in her chubby fists and pull them from the dirt with all her might.

"It's expected of us to be seen out and about with other parents of our social stature. This is the environment our children will be raised in," she says, gesturing around them to the steadily increasing number of well-dressed, obviously wealthy parents and children. "It's necessary to acclimate them to it now so it'll be easier for them to handle the pressure of inevitable competition when they themselves rise to stardom."

"Uh …" Mercedes says as she, Kurt, and Blaine stare at Rachel straightening the bowtie her barely year-and-a-half old son keeps trying to tear off his neck.

"Wow," Kurt says, mouth agape. "I … don't know how to respond to any of that."

"A simple _you're absolutely right, Rachel. I agree with you 100%_ would suffice."

"Not the direction I was thinking of going," Kurt says, sharing a look with his giggling husband, "but okay."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Come on, guys! Why don't we try to enjoy ourselves? It's a beautiful day! The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I think the Easter bunny just arrived!"

Kurt, Blaine, and Mercedes take a gander at the festivities around them heralding the soon-to-be start of the egg hunt. Indeed, the Easter bunny had arrived. But this was not your average, human-sized, department store cottontail dressed in a pastel vest and straw top hat, carrying a basket of colorful, candy-filled plastic eggs. _This_ Easter bunny is easily seven feet tall, dressed in what could only be described as a vintage suit of aubergine brocade with matching purple top hat; a tall, white plume tucked inside the olive green hat band; a gold monocle over his left eye; carrying a hand-carved mahogany walking stick in one hand, and a Moses basket in the other, filled to bursting with eggs, jelly beans, foil-wrapped chocolates, and trinkets and tidbits that catch the light and twinkle like gemstones. He's surrounded by an entourage of handlers, each wearing an outfit to complement the bunny's own and carrying baskets of the same treats to hand out to the kids. The bunny and his team walk the perimeter of the field, and a parade forms behind him – adorable little boys and girls bedecked in their Sunday best, dresses and suits that Kurt saw advertised in _Vogue_ for close to four figures. But some of them are dressed in honest to God athletic wear.

Those boys and girls look downright intimidating.

"I don't know," Blaine says, eyeing five children dressed in matching track suits and running shoes. "Some of the people here look awfully competitive."

"Of course they are! The prizes here are outstanding! Last year, they hid a $10,000 Tiffany engagement ring in one of the eggs!"

Kurt's eyebrows shoot up so far, they disappear somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. "Really?"

"At my church, all we got were goldfish crackers and bite size Snickers bars," Mercedes says.

"Not here," Rachel says proudly, as if she had a hand in organizing the thing. "They go _all_ out - luxury vacations, spa packages, theater tickets … but don't worry. The emphasis here is on _fun_."

"Do _they_ know that?" Kurt asks, motioning with his chin towards a nearby family dressed entirely in Under Armour from The Rock's latest collection – mother, father, and their five-year-old daughter staring down Tracy like a lion stares down an easy meal.

 _Under Armour – proud sponsor of Easter and good-natured family fun_ , Kurt thinks spitefully.

Suddenly, their attentions are directed upward by the sound of a helicopter arriving, circling the area above their heads.

"Okay, why is _that_ here?" Blaine asks. It'd be easy to assume it's paparazzi, but there isn't supposed to be any here. That's part of the appeal. There are guards posted everywhere to ensure the privacy of the families participating. But they can't be everywhere at once. It's possible one or two might get through.

"It's here to drop more eggs from above! _Those_ are the ones people _really_ go for. Some of them are made out of solid gold!" Rachel explains, nearly drooling after the words _solid gold_.

"What the-? That's insane!" Kurt envisions something the size of a chicken egg made of gold plummeting from the sky and smacking him on the head. That would definitely leave a dent in his skull, at the very least.

Could he survive that impact?

"Ouch!" Blaine covers Tracy's head protectively while keeping an eye on the sky.

"Isn't this a little excessive?" Mercedes asks. "I mean, I have the money to go to whatever spa I want. That's one of the perks of being famous."

"Yeah." Kurt joins his husband and daughter, hovering over them in an effort to protect them both. "And what 18-month-old needs a Tiffany engagement ring anyway? This sounds like it was put together more for the parents than the kids. Maybe we should go somewhere else."

"No!" Rachel pleads. "Just … give it a few minutes! Please? An hour at the most? I _promise_ we'll have fun! I've been looking forward to this Easter egg hunt ever since I found out I was _pregnant_!"

Kurt shakes his head slowly. "I don't know, Rach …"

"It's the kids' first Easter egg hunt, Kurt! Don't you want it to be memorable?"

"Yeah, but because we had a good time! Not because someone went to the hospital with a concussion!"

"Look - we're at a big, private park! There's a playground and a lake not too far from here! If you don't like the Easter egg hunt, we can go over there and let the kids play. But can we give this a try first? _Please_?"

Kurt looks for help from a worried Blaine, still covering Tracy's head, to a skeptical Mercedes, and sighs. Their expressions scream _they don't approve_ , but they're not going to object vocally without hearing what he has to say first. Why does he always end up with the deciding vote? He doesn't want to be the one who'll get the silent treatment if this all goes wrong.

Of course, he doesn't want to listen to three weeks of Rachel's gloating if this turns out to be the best afternoon they've ever had.

In the end, it's all about the kids, and the two of them, playing in the grass without a care in the world, seem to be enjoying themselves.

They're already here. They drove for hours to get here. And it _is_ a stunning location. They can stick it out for a while, collect a few eggs, dodge the helicopter, grab some punch and cookies over at the refreshment table, and then retire to the playground. It'll be fine. It might even be fun.

If anything, the pictures will be precious.

"Alright," he says. "We'll give it an hour."

"Yay!" Rachel says, clapping her hands with glee the same way she did back in high school.

It kind of puts a sour taste in Kurt's mouth.

"But after that …"

 _"Alright, ladies and gentlemen! Lads and lasses! Step right up to the starting line! The 53rd Annual Hampton Bay Easter Egg Hunt is about to begin!"_

"Starting line?" Blaine repeats. "What … what starting line?"

Kurt looks around in confusion. Starting line? He doesn't remember seeing anything marked _starting line_. There was only the rope and …

Uh oh …

While they'd been discussing staying or going, they hadn't noticed that the parade of kids and parents following the Easter bunny had circled round and stopped about a hundred feet away … right where the rope Kurt, Blaine, Mercedes, and Rachel passed to get in had been set up. There they stood – a mob of adults and children lined up in starting positions, brows furrowed in deep concentration, ready to charge, like a re-enactment of _The Hunger Games_ if the eccentrically dressed inhabitants of the Capitol City were the ones on the attack.

Kurt, Blaine, Mercedes, and Rachel didn't know.

Nobody told them.

Nobody warned them.

Nobody seemed to care that they were sitting in the grass, dead center, in the way.

 _"On your marks …"_

"Wha-what's going on?" Rachel asks, comical in her inability to get the hint.

 _"… get set …"_

"Uh, this isn't good," Mercedes says.

Kurt springs to his feet, gearing up to drag the lot of them off the field before the announcer can get to _Go!_

But he never does.

And not because he's waiting for them to vacate the field. (Who knows if the man even sees them?) But because the start of the hunt is proclaimed by a gun shot.

The sharp pop hits the air.

After that, the roar of hundreds of feet hitting the ground, along with the frantic screaming of children, is deafening. At the same time, the helicopter above releases its bounty. Plastic eggs rain down around them, exploding on contact, spreading chocolate shrapnel within a foot of where they land. One hits Kurt on the top of his head.

"Ow! God!" he wails, rubbing an already forming bump with his fingers. He doesn't know what the heck was inside that thing, but his head begins to throb.

No way is he going to stay there if something made of solid gold is headed his way.

"Oh _hell_ no!" Mercedes yells, helping Rachel get her son off the ground. He chirps and squeals, laughing as egg after egg hits the grass, one barely missing his soft little head.

"Run!" Kurt says, pulling his husband to his feet and getting pelted by another plastic egg in the process. He sees this one where it lands, spraying jelly beans left and right, and he starts laughing - a distant and mortifying memory of being assaulted by pee balloons as a bullied teen in the stressed-filled atmosphere of high school tickling him with the irony of growing into an uber-successful man who was now being pummeled by candy in the equally stress-filled atmosphere of this elitist event.

"Kurt!" Blaine cries, plucking Tracy out of the grass. He covers her head with his jacket and bolts, leaving Kurt behind in a mad dash for their car. "Kurt! Hurry up!"

Kurt runs to catch up. Three steps in, a featureless gold blur hits the ground hard, and his foot gets caught in the hole it makes. He falls to his knees, laughing hysterically. "Raise our daughter well, Blaine!" he chokes out over the howl of the raging onslaught. "And remember, I always loved you!"

Blaine turns to see his husband, red-faced with laughter, swallowed by the crowd, and despite being concerned for his safety, he can't help laughing, too, at the ridiculousness of it all. He knows that in a few minutes the crowd will pass, and Kurt will emerge the way he always does – dignified, triumphant, and probably with one of those golden eggs Rachel was fiending over. "You're a good man, Kurt! You shall be avenged!"


End file.
